


The Five People Who Might Have Offered Phillipe Comfort (and the One Person He Wanted There But Couldn't Have)

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis XIV tells his brother of the Chevalier's arrest and leaves. Phillipe falls to his knees and passes the night sobbing on the chapel floor. A look at what might have happened if Henriette, or Bontemps, or Louis or the Queen or Rohan had gone to find him- and then a look at how, without the Chevalier, Phillipe has nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Henriette.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think Episode Seven was sad enough.

Phillipe’s skull feels as if it might crack at the temples, the throbbing in his head matched by the pounding of his heart as he fights to bring his sobs under control. Phlegm and bile mix in his throat and his stomach twists and clenches; he thinks he will be sick if he cannot stop crying and the thought of vomiting here, over the floor of the chapel, of having to find a servant to ask them to clear it up, makes him cry even harder. His sobs echo around the room, the ache in his head grows louder and faster and his chest feels more constricted than they had the first time the Chevalier had helped him put on a corset and pulled the laces far too tight-and Phillipe hadn’t liked to say- he had fainted during their walk, Chevalier had carried him home- Phillipe had forgotten, but now a hundred little buried moments are rising to the front of his mind, proof that the Chevalier wasn’t a bad person, wasn’t a _traitor_ of all things-

“Husband?” He did not hear her enter the Chapel; her lilting voice, soft and concerned makes him flinch. He swipes the water from his eyes, nails catching on his face as he does so, and scrambles to his feet.

“Minette,” he says, smiling and swallowing back the constriction in his throat. She looks like a ghost, leaning against her palm on the doorway, other hand on the swell of her stomach, her face pale- she is in her dressing gown, her hair loose around her face. “You should be in bed, poppet, you need to rest-“

“I was. But the Queen came to find me-she told me about Paris. About…the Chevalier…” she looks at him, and licks her lips, staring at him, watching- Phillipe feels a sound that is neither a sob nor a laugh escape between his lips

“You must be so happy,” he says “He’s gone, he’s gone for good, I’ll never get him back-“

“You cannot expect me to have any love for the man who loathes me and encourages you to do the same,” she says quietly, and any defence of the Chevalier Phillipe wants to make dies even as he parts his lips to make it- he knows what Henriette says is true, and his cheeks heat beneath her scrutiny.

“I could never hate you.” He says instead. “I just-“ he looks at her, eyes wet, begging her to understand. “I _love him.”_

“I know,” she says, exhaling as she smiles sympathetically “That is why I came to make sure you are alright, if there is anything I can do.”

Phillipe stares at her, numb. He thinks he can smell her perfume, though perhaps he is imagining it- English Rose: the same scent he had brought some for her a few months after their wedding, a few days after they had agreed to be friends despite everything- despite Louis, despite the Chevalier- “We are friends?” he asks, just to make sure, because he knows he has not always been kind to her-

She nods. “Friends,” she agrees, and Phillipe exhales, a long, shuddering breath.

“Does everyone know?” he asks, and his stomach twists again at the thought of the gossip that will follow him, the whispers, the stares, the faux pity that he will be approached with. He will be thought a fool- deceived by someone whom he ought to have known intimately- or else viewed with the deepest suspicion. Was he involved? Was the Chevalier acting on his orders, was he the mastermind behind the conspiracy, the snake in the shadows clever enough to not get caught? It will be debated in hushed whispers at the card tables, conversations falling silent when he approaches- bed suddenly sounds a good idea, he will bury himself beneath the covers and not emerge again for a very, very long time- Henriette winces. This will shame her to, Phillipe realises- she will be the wife of a man who sleeps with a man who tried to remove the man she loves from power- what a mess they all are.

“Not yet,” she tells him. “Not officially, though there are already rumours-“

“Of course,” Phillipe nods, then glances around the chapel and sighs again, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again.  “Would you come to Saint-Cloud with me before it does?” he whispers. “Likely- likely the first Louis speaks of it will be to announce the-the-“ he cannot bring himself to say “executions”, not when thinking of the Chevalier, when thinking of all the horrible, painful ways his brother has to have someone put to death. “If we stay I will not be allowed to grieve,” he says instead, though that is just as painful to acknowledge. “Louis will not allow me to mourn the death of a traitor. If we use the child as an excuse-“

“Louis won’t let you out of his sight,” Henriette says. “Not now-“

“Ask him,” Phillipe did not mean to sound so furious, did not mean to make her flinch away. “Ask him- please- Minette- he will say yes to you.”

Even in the poor light of the chapel, he can see the conflict on her face. She loves Versailles; she loves his brother; she does not care for Saint-Cloud, with its rooms set aside for Phillipe and the Chevalier to be domestic in, and the prospect of being trapped with only him for company when he will be no fit company at all cannot fill her with pleasure.

“I will ask,” she says eventually- “I will tell the King the truth of why you wish to leave,” she adds. “I do not think he will begrudge you some time to collect yourself after the Chevalier’s death. He does love you,” she adds, more softly. “You know that?”

“He does not trust me,” Phillipe says.

There is silence between them, a silence that seems to stretch for all eternity before it is broken by Henriette yawning suddenly, eyes widening in embarrassment. “Forgive me-“

“You should go to bed,” Phillipe says, coming back to himself, forcing himself to focus on her. If he focuses on her, he need not think of anything else, for now at least- he will walk with her out of the chapel, up to her bed- “May I stay with you tonight?” he asks. He didn’t mean for his voice to catch in his throat, to betray how suddenly he could not bear the thought of being alone, but he is glad when Henriette reaches out and takes his hand, gently squeezing his fingertips.

“Of course,” she says. “You can be the extra pillow I keep asking for that never seems to arrive.” She smiles, and he smiles in return, lips quivering slightly.

They leave the chapel hand in hand and make their way up to bed together.

If Henriette’s sleep was disturbed by her husband’s weeping in to the sleeve of his nightshirt, she does not mention it come the morning.

 


	2. Bontemps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you forgot the Chevalier's arrest wasn't the only terrible thing Phillipe had to suffer, that isn't actually why Bontemps thinks he might need some comforting.
> 
> Warning for period-typical homophobia

 

Phillipe’s skull feels as if it might crack at the temples, the throbbing in his head matched by the ponding of his heart as he fights to bring his sobs under control. Phlegm and bile mix in his throat and his stomach twists and clenches; he thinks he will be sick if he cannot stop crying and the thought of vomiting here, over the floor of the chapel, of having to find a servant to ask them to clear it up, makes him cry even harder. His sobs echo around the room, the ache in his head grows louder and faster and his chest feels more constricted than it had the first time the Chevalier had helped him put on a corset and pulled the laces far too tight-and Phillipe hadn’t liked to say- he had fainted during their walk, Chevalier had carried him home- Phillipe had forgotten, but now a hundred little buried moments are rising to the front of his mind, proof that the Chevalier wasn’t a bad person, wasn’t a _traitor_ of all things-

Just something else to add to the list of things he had lost because of Louis.

Their mother had given him a doll once, as a Christmas present. Phillipe had been seven, Louis nine and quick to laugh- “Dolls are for _girls,_ mama!” To which their mother had replied: “Phillipe is my little girl.” Phillipe had been seven. He hadn’t realised the smile with which their mother had spoken was slightly sly, that she had exchanged glances with Cardinal Mazarin over their heads- he had been too busy trying to think of the right name for his present. She had dark curls like him, and a dress the exact same style and colour as the dress mother had given him for his birthday back in September- he had called her Ysabel and been careful not to so much as crease the silk of her skirts. Louis, for whom presents had been a two-minute wonder even then, had grown gradually more bewildered as the New Year arrived, then spring, then summer, then the next autumn and then it was nearly Christmas again, and Phillipe was still making sure Ysabel was put safely to bed every night and woken up every morning to look at the flowers in the garden with “Tante Minette”.  Louis had _just wanted to hold it, don’t be such a baby_.

Phillipe doesn’t remember exactly what happened then, the chain of events that led to Louis hurling Ysabel in to the fountain and Phillipe nearly drowning as he scrambled in to the fountain basin to try and retrieve her. He remembers the slap their mother gave him for being so foolish, for not taking better care of his things, for screaming that he hated his brother and he wished Louis were dead. He remembers sitting on the floor in his room, shivering in his soaking wet clothes, knees pulled to his chest.

He remembers Bontemps appearing with a mug of hot chocolate, lowering himself to the floor in front of him and placing the cup in front of him in much the same way that Bontemps is there now, wincing as his bones creak in protest as he lowers himself to the floor and sits, cross-legged  in front of Phillipe, on the floor of the chapel, placing a mug of chocolate between them with a slight “clink” of china on marble. As if the Chevalier is nothing more than a doll, as if Phillipe is still a child so easily coaxed out of heartbreak.

“Did my brother send you?” he asks with a slight sneer, because the days when Bontemps cared for _both_ royal siblings rather than just the important one vanished with Phillipe’s childhood. Bontemps pulls that face of his, the one that says You Are Being Immature, You Are Aiming To Wound But Main Only Yourself, and Phillipe hates it, hates the way a mere Valet can make him feel so small and insignificant. “I didn’t know, if that’s what Louis wants,” he adds, though the lie tastes sour in his mouth. He _had_ known the Chevalier was planning, plotting-. Not against the King though, not _against_ him. It isn’t treason, it’s not a conspiracy, not if they didn’t want the King dead which they _didn’t,_ the Chevalier had promised as much. Save him, not kill him. _Save him_.

“Drink that before it grows cold, your highness,” Bontemps says, and Phillipe obeys, raising the cup to his lips and taking a sip. It is bitter, it burns over his tongue and scorches his throat, and Phillipe slams the cup back down on the saucer, making the china rattle more for effect than because he is truly angry, though he is, a little- at Chevalier, at himself. Bontemps looks at him with eyes that seem to See _everything,_ everything Phillipe is and does and thinks. Phillipe picks up the cup and drinks again, more because it allows him to avoid Bontemps’ look than because he wants the drink.

Though, it does taste less bitter the second time around.

“The Queen meant no insult earlier today. Nor did I mean one in supporting her. I am…anxious that you understand that.”

God Almighty, Phillipe does not want to hear this. He does not want to hear the justification for telling him that he is unfit, _worthless, not his own man-_ now is not the time, surely Bontemps must realise that-

“I believe you to be a good man, your highness. Other influences…”

“You mean my traitor lover?” Phillipe spits. “He has a name, though I noticed none of you cared to use it- _Phillipe, Chevalier de Lorraine,_ from a family older than my own. My mother approved of him,” he spits, “Cardinal Mazarin approved of him, so what we do together can’t be _that much of a sin,_ not that it matters now not that any of it matters- and don’t bother telling me that the reason Mother liked him so much was because it would result in everyone thinking _exactly_ what my dear sister articulated in the council today because I know that, I know that!” He slams the hot chocolate down. The drink sploshes out of the cup, droplets spilling everywhere as he throws his arms up around his head and cries, rocking back and forward the control he had managed to gain over himself shattering in an instant. Everything _hurts-_ not just the Chevalier’s arrest or being told that he isn’t fit to rule France, or Louis’ mistrust of him, but acknowledging aloud that Louis was _raised_ to mistrust him, that their mother and the Cardinal are probably be looking down at him in delight as they realised it had all payed off- he was no threat to his brother after all- “Why did they have to do it?” he sobs, and he isn’t sure if he’s talking about the nobles or his mother and Mazarin- or if by they he means he and by he he means Louis and by Louis he means why did he have to get sick? Why did any of this have to happen? Bontemps’ hand is on his shoulder, hovering, hesitating- and then his arm is firmly around Phillipe’s back and he is pulling Phillipe close, stroking his hair and murmuring things that Phillipe can’t quite hear but soothe him anyway.

When Phillipe is done, Bontemps’ shoulder is soaked in saltwater, and the lower half of Phillipe’s face is stained with snot; he pushes away from the valet, accepting  the offered handkerchief and scrubbing at his face. Bontemps’ hand remains on his back, and Phillipe hunches forward, trying to move away. The Valet is Louis’, not his, he does not need the man’s pity. Still, Bontemps understands the message and takes his hand away, and Phillipe regrets the loss. “Forgive me,” he mutters. “I am not myself- I have had a shock-“

He rises to his feet, and looks down at the Valet. “I will go to bed, I think. Good night.”

“Good night, your highness,” Bontemps says, and there is something in his tone that Phillipe cannot quite place, but he think might be sadness.

“Your highness,” he calls, as Phillipe reaches the door. Phillipe looks back; Bontemps has struggled to his own feet using the alter for support. “I know it must be difficult, but try to think of this as a…a clean slate, if you will. Start afresh.”

“Act in a way more becoming of a king, you mean?” Phillipe asks, eyebrows rising briefly. Bontemps does not respond, and Phillipe takes his leave.

It isn’t until he reaches his chambers that he realises he still has Bontemps’ handkerchief scrunched up in his hand.


	3. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, Louis ought to have known he was the last person Phillipe would want to see.
> 
> Warning for swearing and violence. And mentions of horrible execution methods.

 

The fever has burnt itself out, Claudine tells him. Of course it has. There is nothing on this earth that can withstand the heat of the Sun, and poison is no exception. Nor are conspirators, Louis thinks to himself with a slight smirk on his lips as he signs death warrant after death warrant. He takes care to ensure his mark is a perfect series of elegant loops and curls as he signs away the lives of men who sought to end his. He finds satisfaction in it, he admits- righteous power. He was sent by God to rule, those who defy him defy not just their King but their God as well, and now they will have to answer for it to Him-

A little of that righteous satisfaction fades as he reads the name on the last warrant in his pile.

_Phillipe, Chevalier de Lorraine._

Louis’ mark on the paper and the man will die. His death will cause Louis no sadness. He has always disliked the Chevalier, from their first meeting where he found him to be entirely lacking in both wit and morality- where the absence of one might have been acceptable to lack _both_ was unforgivable- and altogether vulgar in his obsession with himself, with his appearance, and with sinking his manicured claws in to Phillipe. Later meetings, watching the man wrap Louis’ brother tighter and tighter around his finger without displaying even a hint of merit, of being worthy of the affections Phillipe bestowed upon him, did not improve Louis’ view of the Chevalier. Louis has always believed him to be untrustworthy; now he has been proved correct. The Chevalier de Lorraine is a traitor, and it will cause Louis no sadness to order him torn to pieces.

Except, in issuing that order, the Chevalier’s body is not the only thing that will be ripped apart- Phillipe’s heart will also be torn in two.

Louis sits back in his chair, pen hovering above the parchment as he contemplates his position. The memory of Phillipe’s expression in the chapel- disbelief turning to horror and grief-rises before him like a spectre, and Louis can only imagine what will happen if Phillipe has to be told the sentence has been carried out. His brother will weep, certainly, scream in all likelihood, work himself in to hysterics, probably- the thought is almost impossible to bear. Not only could it risk Phillipe’s health, but it would endanger Louis as well. The king’s brother, grieving for the man who led an attempt on the life of that very same king? It could embolden those foes who had not been caught in this trap, the thought that Monsieur was aggrieved with the King, that the two of them had divided the two of them. And Phillipe had the support of the army…if he were to call upon them…

The Chevalier de Lorraine might make a more useful hostage than corps.

Then again, his death would send a clear message to anyone else who might make an attempt against their king: Louis the Great has arrived, and if you stand against him, you will fall- whoever you are, however important you think yourself. Your nobility does not protect you. There is still the possibility that Phillipe’s reaction earlier was feigned, that he knew about the conspiracy and was involved in it- perhaps running it. Rohan warned that Phillipe had seemed angry at being passed over for the job of regent- might that have spurned him to ask his lover to begin to gather him allies? Had Phillipe intended to instigate a coup against Louis’ Queen if Louis’ illness had continued, or been fatal? If that _was_ the case, then executing Phillipe’s lover might frighten his brother enough to keep him in line.

Or it might push him over the edge, set Phillipe firmly against him.

Or it might break him, his brother’s spirit extinguished along with the lights in the Chevalier’s eyes.

Louis is not certain which of these outcomes he finds most disturbing- a brother who must be ruled by fear, a brother who cannot be ruled, or a brother who cares so little that he does not need to be ruled at all.

He blows on the warrant, drying the ink that will see the Chevalier’s blood spilled. Then he folds it, hiding the name, and goes to the door and hands the parchment to one of the four guards outside. “Take this to Monsieur Marchel. Tell him not to act upon it until I’ve had a chance to talk to the person whom it concerns, do you understand me?”

The guard bows and takes the parchment. “Yes, sire.”

He leaves. Louis turns to his remaining guards.  “You will come with me,” he orders, and sets off in the opposite direction. He will find Phillipe, get him to acknowledge the Chevalier’s crimes and the seriousness of what his lover has done, the precarious position his lover put Phillipe in. And really, this conspiracy is a risk to Phillipe’s safety as well as Louis’ own. If Phillipe can be made to see that, then perhaps the blow of the Chevalier’s death will not hit him quite as hard.

Perhaps Louis shouldn’t be walking through the corridors of Versailles- he is still supposed to be ill after all, and if he is spotted now it will ruin the theatrics he has planned for the dance tomorrow evening. But no- it is quiet: even the servants are abed now and none of the nobles will stir until nine tomorrow morning at the earliest. Louis will not be seen, and if he is- well. He can always pretend to be fever-walking again. The thought amuses him, and he laughs quietly to himself as he reaches Phillipe’s chambers. He walks through Phillipe’s sitting room and pushes open the door of the bedroom-

It is empty.

His brother’s bed has not been touched- the covers are in pristine condition, the pillows plumped up- Louis glances around, wonders briefly if the place is tidy because Phillipe likes it that way or because he has maids to clear up after him, then leaves again. The guard follows silently; Louis gestures to him to wait outside as he opens the door to Henriette’s chamber and slips in quietly.

Minette is asleep. Louis goes to her, sits on the edges of her bed and strokes her cheek. Her eyelids flutter and she groans. “Phillipe, what…” Her eyes open, then open wider and she struggles to sit up.

“My King! You are recovered, you…” her face relaxes in to a smile and she reaches for his hand. Louis allows her to grasp his fingertips before asking:

“Have you seen your husband?”

Minette frowns. “Why would you look for him here, he will be in his own bed. Or the _Chevalier’s_.” her mouth twists. Louis shakes his head. Another upside of the Chevalier’s arrest- perhaps Minette and Phillipe’s relationship can be mended now. That would be good, for the sake of the child if nothing else-

 _My child,_ he thinks, but he pushes the thought away. They cannot know that for certain-

“The Chevalier de Lorraine was arrested in Paris earlier. He was involved in a plot against my life.”

Henriette’s eyes widen again. “The Chevalier is arrested? He is…where…the Bastille?”

“Yes, he is in the Bastille.” Louis smiles at, her then frowns as she looks at the covers then back up at him, seeming….distraught? “Minette? Are you well?”

“Phillipe…what will become of him? If the Chevalier…your brother is loyal to you, I would swear it. You will not have him arrested because of his connection to the Chevalier, would you?”

Arrest Phillipe.  When Fabian Marchel told Louis of the Chevalier’s arrest, Rohan had suggested confining the Duc d’Orleans to a set of empty chambers, at least until his rooms and the Chevalier’s had both been searched. Louis had put off deciding until he had informed his brother of the Chevalier’s arrest, had seen his reaction to it… “It was discussed, but decided against,” Louis tells Minette, and squeezes her hand. “I told Phillipe of the conspiracy in person, he was as shocked and upset as I was to learn of it- I am of the same mind as you,” he gives her a smile, and she smiled back. “My brother is loyal.”

“Then what do you want of him now?” Henriette askes. “If you have already informed him of the Chevalier’s arrest…”

“I wish to assure him that he is safe, that I do not believe him implicated in the plot. He has lost no favour with me, I would have him know that.”

Henriette nods, and snuggles back down beneath the covers. She does not relinquish her grip on his hand. “He will be heartbroken,” she observes. “You had best look for him where you last left him, I doubt he will have thought to move.”

Louis smiles. “Of course,” he tells her. He leans over and kisses her forehead. “You are well?” he asks, “there is nothing I can get for you?”

“Make sure my husband is alright,” Henriette tells him. Louis smiles again, though this time it is nothing more than a pull of his muscles. Marrying Phillipe and Henriette had secured ties with England and kept Minette at home, in France, with them where she belonged. They had been close as children and Louis likes to believe that they were still close despite everything. He does not regret his decision. He does not regret not marrying Minette himself- Marie-Therese is as brilliant a Queen as France could ask for, more or less. Minette would have been no better. Or no worse.

 _Phillipe,_ he tells himself, because he worries for his brother. He will be heartbroken- Louis knew this the moment he learnt of the Chevalier’s involvement and yet he left Phillipe to process the knowledge alone. _I had work to do_ he thinks, _signing death warrants,_ a nastier, smaller voice whispers.

_Catching up on the time I’d lost because those traitors tried to end my life._

He walks in to the chapel, the guards on his heels, and stops.

Phillipe is on the floor, shoulders hunched and shaking. His hair falls around his face like a curtain- or a veil, Louis supposes, given his brother’s taste for feminine clothing.

He is crying.

Silently, softly- it has been hours now, he must be running out of tears, but nonetheless-

Louis’ baby brother is crying.

Louis draws himself up and clears his throat, taking a step towards him and reaching out. Phillipe’s head shoots up, and Louis takes in his pale face and bloodshot eyes- and the ominous twist his mouth is beginning to take on. He stills as Phillipe speaks.

“Let me guess,” Phillipe spits. “You have gone and arrested each of my mignions, just to make sure that the corruption in _l’archmignion_ has not spread to them all.”

Louis stares at his brother, not comprehending a word that spills out of his mouth. “Your what? L’arch… _what_? _”_

Phillipe waves a hand. “You have your mistresses, I have my mignions. Though- I don’t actually tend to _sleep_ _around_ the way you do, the Chevalier-“ Phillipe’s throat catches and he coughs, then sniffs, then speaks. “Chevalier is my _archmignion,_ though I suppose I will need a new one now.” Phillipe tosses his head, moving his hair from his face and glaring at Louis. “Or have you come to arrest _me_?” he asks, nodding at the guards who stand watch other their king.

“Have you done something you ought to be arrested for?” It comes naturally to Louis, after so many years- his flippant response to Phillipe is through his lips before he truly registers it. Phillipe’s lips thin and his glare intensifies.

“Has the Chevalier?” he asks. Louis scoffs, but Phillipe presses on. “Really, truly, brother- the nobles in Paris. What were they discussing? You have proof that it was nothing more than contingency planning? You did have us all thinking you were dying, after all.”

Louis stares. They do _not_ know exactly what was discussed. But the Chevalier has links to nobles who have links to Cassel who is linked with the ciphers. That hardly matters-the captive nobles will admit what was going on, they will admit _something_ was happening-

“My God,” Phillipe says, and there is none of the reverence with which Phillipe last uttered those words to Louis in this place in his tone. Instead it is disgust- blasphemy instead of identification, and Louis recoils. He forgets, he always forgets- Phillipe can read him just as well as Bontemps can.

Louis draws himself upright as Phillipe climbs unsteadily to his feet, clinging to the alter for support.

“He’s no conspirator.” Phillipe snarls. “He met with _friends_ to discuss the _future,_ is that illegal now? You faked your _fucking_ illness, you can hardly blame people for reacting to a possible change in circumstances-“

“A change in circumstances? Is that how you would have seen your King’s death? Your _brother’s_ death!”

“That is all that the nobles would have seen it as had you died- what, you think they would mourn you, brother? You’ve given them no cause to do that you’ve given them no cause to do anything other than hate you- you and this _fucking palace_ -!”

Phillipe snatches one of the candlesticks from the alter, its flame burnt out, and hurls it at Louis. The King ducks, flinching as the wrought iron slams in to the wall than drops to the floor with a deafening clatter.

“This is your fault this is all your fault!” Phillipe hurls the second candlestick and casts about for more missiles, tears streaming down his face and breath coming in choking sobs. Louis gestures to the guards.

“Restrain him!” he barks, knowing that it is a gamble, knowing that the soldiers all love Monsieur…. But the guards are already moving past Louis and snatching at Phillipe’s flailing limbs: two of the men take an arm each, the other relieves Phillipe of the icon in his hand and places on the alter as his comrades drag Phillipe to stand in front of the King. Phillipe does not resist, he stands in front of Louis and meets his gaze, tears still chasing tracks down his cheek as he smiles humourlessly.

“They’re unhappy. Just like the builders are unhappy, just as everyone is unhappy except for you-“

“What do you mean, “They”?” Louis asks sharply. “What do you know of this?”

They had talked. Phillipe and the Chevalier had talked about Paris, of that Louis was suddenly certain. And yet…Phillipe had seemed so certain that the Chevalier was not part of a conspiracy-what had the Chevalier told Phillipe was happening? What did his brother _know?_ Phillipe shook his head.

“Give him back to me, _please,_ brother. If you ever loved me, If I have ever done anything to be worthy of your affections-“

“You just threw candlesticks at me,” Louis said, staring in disbelief. “You just attacked me, and now you’re pleading with me to grant your lover clemency _?”_ Sometimes Louis wondered what went on inside Phillipe’s head. His brother’s moods were more changeable than the sea, a raging storm to nothing but calm in next to no time at all. “Escort the Duc d’Orleans to his quarters, he is clearly unwell” he told the guards. “I will send my physician to you, they will give him something to help sleep.”

“Louis. Louis don’t do this, please, just give him back,” Phillipe struggled against the guards, refusing to be dragged off to his chambers. Stubborn to the last. Louis almost smiled.

“I will keep you informed of what is discovered concerning the Chevalier’s involvement in this plot,” Louis told him. “If he is innocent of everything except a little foolishness, he will be released.”

“And…and if he isn’t?” Louis cannot bare the way Phillipe looks at him with wide, doe eyes, so hopeful, as if he expects Louis to say that he will pardon treason.

“If he isn’t then he will be executed,” he says harshly, and Phillipe deflates.  “It is for the best, brother,” Louis says, more gently this time. “You will lose a lover. If I were to let him go and that were to encourage others to try their hand at treason in the belief that I am too weak to deal with it…” He reaches out and stokes Phillipe’s cheek. “My safety is paramount for yours, brother,” he whispers. “Just remember that. Get some rest now,” he adds, stepping back and nodding to the guards restraining Phillipe still. They tug him around Louis and lead him away. Phillipe does not resist.

Louis turns to the remaining guard. “With me,” he says. “I must speak with Monsieur Marchel concerning the Chevalier, then send Masson to Phillipe…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think! A massive thank you to all who have reviewed/ left kudos so far!


	4. Marie-Theresa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go: Marie-Teresa. This chapter is very religion-centric, and therefore 17th century roman catholic views of homosexuality are brought up or implied, also, warning for some slight internalised homophobia.
> 
> A massive thank-you to all of you reading this, and an even bigger thank you to anyone who's left comments. You're all amazing, every single one of you

Phillipe’s skull feels as if it might crack at the temples, the throbbing in his head matched by the ponding of his heart as he fights to bring his sobs under control. Phlegm and bile mix in his throat and his stomach twists and clenches; he thinks he will be sick if he cannot stop crying and the thought of vomiting here, over the floor of the chapel, of having to find a servant to ask them to clear it up, makes him cry even harder. His sobs echo around the room, the ache in his head grows louder and faster and his chest feels more constricted than it had the first time the Chevalier had helped him put on a corset and pulled the laces far too tight-and Phillipe hadn’t liked to say- he had fainted during their walk, Chevalier had carried him home- Phillipe had forgotten, but now a hundred little buried moments are rising to the front of his mind, proof that the Chevalier wasn’t a bad person, wasn’t a  _traitor_ _of all things…_

Marie-Teresa strides in to the chapel as if she owns it, in a rustle of silk and brocade and clanging of jewellery. Propriety would dictate that Phillipe rise to his feet and bow to his Queen, but he lacks both the inclination and the energy. The glint in her eyes and the jut of her chin lets him know that she has noted his slight and made a note of it, and Phillipe…still cannot bring himself to stand. What more can happen to him tonight, it’s not as if he has anything else left to be taken from him, is it? His sister in law stands, watching him, and he watches back- tears still streaking down his face.

Eventually, she speaks.

“Shall we pray for him, brother?”

“I’m sorry?” the words are out of Phillipe’s mouth even before he has finished registering Marie-Teresa’s words and when she repeats them, they still make no sense.

“You think God will listen?” he asks, lips curving humourlessly. “You think the Father Almighty will intercede on behalf of two sodomites, bathed in sin as we are?” he spits the words out like poison, aware- oh, how aware he has been, since learning of the Chevalier’s arrest…the chapel, of all places. Phillipe knows what the Church thinks of them, he ignores it, most of the time- he chooses to believe that if God exists and He forms each individual, then he formed Phillipe’s own body in the full knowledge that it would only gain true pleasure from another man’s touch, that that was His intention and He does not mind…but the irony of where he is, where he was when he learnt his Chevalier had been damned, is not lost on him and he wonders….he wonders, despite himself, if this is their punishment.

“If he wasn’t my lover, he’d never have gone to Paris,” he whispers, and it is almost like a Confession. “I did not ask him to, I told him I could not…he went for me, nonetheless.” He raises his eyes back to her, desperate to be offered some sort of absolution. This is all his fault, he knows it- a million and one things he could have done differently, should have done differently….should have tried to curb the Chevalier’s reckless disregard for the King’s authority and his power, but damn it, wasn’t that part of why Phillipe had fallen in love with him in the first place? That the Chevalier saw Phillipe as the centre of his universe and gave no thought to the Sun…Phillipe was his world. His world- “I should like it if you prayed with me,” he says, voice unnaturally high. “He has no one else who will.”

If there was a God, and He was inclined to listen to the pleas of mortals, than the Chevalier would need all the intercession possible; he had chosen to struggle against the God-Given king and he had lost. If, by some miracle, he was not to pray the price for that…

I will be obedient to my brother in all things if he shows mercy, Phillipe thinks. I will kneel at his feet and hold my tongue when my thoughts are against him, if he will only show mercy…

“I must confess, I am not much used to praying in French-“

“I am sure God understands Spanish,” Phillipe moves to the side as he turns to face the alter once more, allowing the Queen to sink to the kneeler in a rustle of silk. She nods and her hand goes to the crucifix at her neck.  “Deos te salve Maria…” she begins quietly, and the meaning behind the words would be obvious even if he had not heard his mother say them a thousand times, and Phillipe adds his own quiet voice to hers: “Je vous salut Marie, Pleine de grace, le seigneur est avec tu…”

There is something comforting in reciting the familiar words, and something comforting about having someone by his side to recite them with him, even if it is a different language, even if, in reciting all the common prayers they know, they have sometimes mismatched the Spanish and the French. Phillipe does not know if God is listening to him, but perhaps he is listening to Marie-Teresa, her piety and worthiness of the Kingdom of heaven outstripping Phillipe’s own by miles. Phillipe does not know if God is real, but the woman beside him- his brother’s wife, his sister, his Queen- is real, and with him, and there is peace in that.

When he wakes, the sun is shining on to his skin with wonderful warmth. He is lying on something soft, his- his bed? He is in his apartments, dressed in his nightshirt, but-

Phillipe sits up, alarmed, disorientated. He doesn’t recall coming to bed, he doesn’t recall leaving the chapel and so he calls out for the Chevalier before he remembers-

Alphonse appears in the doorway, the poor mignion looking as if he expects to be shot, shifting from foot to foot, holding something small and square with both hands that he keeps turning over. Phillipe makes a sharp gesture for him to come closer, clicking his fingers then patting the bed next to him, though he moves right across to the far side as the mignions approaches and sits down.

“Please, your highness, the Chevalier-“

“I know,” Phillipe interrupts. Alphonse blushes and shrinks back. “I remember. I don’t remember how I got here. Or how I got undressed and in to bed.”

“You came up with the Queen, Monsieur. It was only a few hours ago, three or four at the most- you were almost sleepwalking, Monsieur. Her Majesty told us about-told us to take care of you and so we did. We helped you undress and put on your nightshirt, you got in to bed and were asleep. Madame knocked on the door an hour ago,” he added. “Guilliame answered, and he told her to go away.” He says this last part with a certain amount of relish, and the small, childish part of Phillipe shares in that relish; though he imagines Guilliame was far more polite to Madame than Alphonse suggests, he is glad she was sent away. Phillipe cannot imagine having to deal with his wife right now.

“What is that?” he asks, nodding at the box Alphonse is still turning over in his hands. The mignion starts.

“Oh!” he says, handing it over. “The Queen left it for you last night.”

Phillipe opens the box. Inside is a rosary, small, with delicate coloured beads and a silver cross…Phillipe runs his fingers over it, a frown of recognition creasing his forehead. “This was one of mother’s” he mutters. God, he’s tired. The calm he vaguely recalls feeling in the chapel has long since withered away, and now there is only exhaustion left……

“Monsieur?”

Phillipe snaps the lid back shut and hands it back. “Put it…somewhere. Safe. I don’t care. Out of sight. On my dresser. Somewhere...I’m going back to sleep.”

“Yes, Monsieur. Sleep-well. Is there anything we can get you?”

“The keys to the bastille and a brother who doesn’t want my lover dead,” Phillipe mutters, but only to himself as he lays back down and shakes his head. “No.”

“Very well. You will call?” His mignion is anxious, like a mother hen, and Phillipe smiles just to calm him. Alphonse smiles back and departs, so easily satisfied, and takes the rosary with him.

Phillipe pulls the covers over his head and feels there aren’t enough prayers in the universe to have the Chevalier back and lying at his side.


	5. Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillipe is vulnerable, and Rohan is manipulative.

 

Phillipe’s skull feels as if it might crack at the temples, the throbbing in his head matched by the ponding of his heart as he fights to bring his sobs under control. Phlegm and bile mix in his throat and his stomach twists and clenches; he thinks he will be sick if he cannot stop crying and the thought of vomiting here, over the floor of the chapel, of having to find a servant to ask them to clear it up, makes him cry even harder. His sobs echo around the room, the ache in his head grows louder and faster and his chest feels more constricted than it had the first time the Chevalier had helped him put on a corset and pulled the laces far too tight-and Phillipe hadn’t liked to say- he had fainted during their walk, Chevalier had carried him home- Phillipe had forgotten, but now a hundred little buried moments are rising to the front of his mind, proof that the Chevalier wasn’t a bad person, wasn’t a  _traitor_ _of all things…_

Sometime later, as Phillipe’s sobs calm to gulps and shudders and gasps, and the pounding in his head has lessened slightly but filtered through to the rest of the nerves in his body, leaving him feeling raw and bruised and fragile- but his thoughts begin to unwrap themselves from their vice-like grip on his mind and he becomes aware, suddenly, that he is not alone in the chapel and has not been for some time. He is being watched- and a sudden fury at being observed in such a state, coupled with an instinctive mistrust of anyone unwilling to announce their presence when they are so clearly intruding has him on his feet in seconds, lunging forward, closing the gap between himself and his unwelcome companion, sending them crashing backwards in to the wall as his brought his forearm across their throat, squeezing, choking-

“Pax!” Rohan splutters, raising his palms and attempting to smile. “Pax- should have known better than to sneak up on an old soldier, I’m still jumpy myself…” Phillipe stares at his brother’s best friend, scanning his face for any hint of his intention. He finds nothing aside from a genial openness, despite the fact Phillipe’s arm is still making it difficult for him to breathe, and Phillipe feels the heat rising in his cheeks, embarrassment swelling over heartbreak for the time being as he steps backwards and Rohan relaxes, ruefully rubbing his neck. Phillipe would not call the other man a friend, exactly; they did not grow close during the war for all that they had often shared a bed for the sake of warmth, or comfort or any manner of practicality, despite the fact that they had saved each other’s lives on occasion- the unspoken truth that Rohan was Louis’, and had been sent to the battlefield to spy on Phillipe for Louis, had always hung in the air between them. After their return, after Louis’ so-called victory, they hadn’t had much cause to interact. Rohan had returned to his brother’s side- the place from which Phillipe has always been forbidden-and so he had returned to the Chevalier, the one person in the palace who had wanted him back…

Phillipe’s eyes are suddenly burning again, water spilling over his lower lashes, and he wipes the tears away with the heel of his palm, turning his back to hide his face from Rohan-

“My brother-“ he begins, because Louis’ illness at least provides him with a ready made excuse for his misery-

“I know, he told me. About the conspiracy in Paris and the Chevalier is to be arrested there? If there’s anything-“

“He told you?” Phillipe repeats, voice sounding distant and queer to his own ears as he turns back to face Rohan, who looks at him with a look of utter bewilderment as he repeats: “ _He_ told _you_ about the _forthcoming_ arrests?”

“Well- yes,” Rohan begins, and Phillipe’s pulse begins to quicken , his hand itching to curl up in itself and fly into Rohan’s teeth. “He-“ Rohan suddenly looks horror stricken. “He did-tell you-“

“My brother informed me he was not dying- oh god,” he glances at the candles, quickly calculating how far they have burned down, how long that would take, “An hour and a half or so ago?” he guesses. “At the same time he told me- he told me that the Chevalier had been arrested-as a traitor-would be treated as such-“ and the tears are flowing again, he cannot help it; every breath he takes is painful, and Rohan only looks more horrified.

“I didn’t mean…I assumed he would have come to you first, you are his brother-“You do not know your king at all well if you think my being his brother makes him feel any concern for me beyond concern that I do not embarrass him,” Phillipe chokes out bitterly. Rohan shifts, uncomfortable.

“You’re mistaken,” he says, “The King cares deeply, he does not wish to hurt you unnecessarily, that was probably why he came to ask for my advice about you-“ he breaks off abruptly, licks his lips, and attempts one of those charmingly crooked smiles of his. “Perhaps you ought to go to bed,” he finishes, “sleep on the matter and…discuss the details with his majesty in the morning, when you are calmer.”

Phillipe wants to take the advice- no, that is not strictly true. He wants to want to take the advice, to make his bows, leave, crawl in to bed and sleep until morning, but he has never been one for letting things alone. “Why would my brother ask you for advice about me?” he demands. “When did he ask-?” Louis does not ask for advice about him, he strides up to him and demands to know what is going on mere breaths before prescribing the answer for him and expecting him to parrot it back…but Rohan is looking more embarrassed then ever and Phillipe’s stomach drops, mind twisting through a thousand horrible possibilities- Rohan exhales softly.

“When his Majesty told me of the Chevalier’s arrest he…asked whether I thought you might have been involved. He….” Rohan blinks, and looks up the ceiling. “He suggested it might be…prudent if you were to be escorted-just to one of the spare chambers, so that your rooms could be searched-he was just mulling things over, aloud- I think he wanted someone to tell him he was doing the right thing in trusting you, I’m sure that was it. Unless-“

“- he wanted someone to confirm his suspicions,” Phillipe says, mouth twisting bitterly. “My brother has no trust in me whatsoever, he was seeking validation for his fears-“Phillipe begins to pace back and forth as Rohan attempts to protest and Phillipe steams across him: “He wants me out of his way- he intends to use this to have me arrested in turn, or-he will send me from Versailles in disgrace-“ House arrest. Would that be better or worse than the Bastille? Than being confined to his suite at Versailles? If he was sent to Saint-Cloud, he could lose himself in his estates, at least- but without the Chevalier inside it, Saint-Cloud suddenly seemed a lot less pleasant a prospect, especially if Minette remained at Versailles, which she would, of course she would…”He takes everything from me!” he burst out, wheeling wildly back around to face Rohan. “He gives me nothing and yet he still finds things to take!” He is struck by a sudden inspiration, and he grabs Rohan by the forearms. “Talk to him for me,” he commands, shaking the other man  a little. “Tell him- tell him that the Chevalier is no traitor- tell him that I need him, you are his friend, he goes to you for advice, tell him….I do not care what you tell him, just get the Chevalier back for me and I will repay you in any way you wish, all you need to is ask me,” he says.

Rohan smiles, a curious light in his eyes. “Anything Monsieur?” he asks lightly, and Phillipe is so wound up in desperate hope, so convinced he has created light at the far end of a tunnel which had hitherto been nothing but pitch darkness, that he does not catch the gleam of triumph flashing through Rohan’s eyes as he confirms: “anything you want.” And why should he be suspicious of Rohan: Rohan is his brother’s oldest friend, and he and Rohan fought together- they are soldiers, the both of them. Rohan nods lightly, and clasps him on the shoulder.

“First, you let me take you to bed so you can get some sleep,” he says. “Then…I don’t suppose you would consider covering for me on occasion? There is a….particular person at court whose company I have found enjoyable, and I would so hate to lose her to your brother…you know what he’s like, if it belongs to someone else….”

“He has to have it,” Phillipe finishes, a thrill of excitement running through him at the thought of living up to his brother’s expectations that he would defy him, hide things from him. “Your courtship is safe with me,” he promises, and never once suspects that it is Phillipe himself Rohan intends to court, and with the aim of driving him irrevocably away from King Louis XIV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how I feel about this chapter; I had this whole idea of how it would look and feel in my head and ....didn't exactly get there. Please let me know what you think, I really value your feedback. 
> 
> One more chapter to go, then we're done, folks! It'll be up ASAP....


	6. Phillipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think the confrontation between Louis and Phillipe in Chapter Three was sad enough.

  

The chapel reserved for use of the King and his family is perhaps the only place in the Versailles that is small and simple and still, the air, so unmoveable and smelling of church, of smoky incense and flickering candle flames and worship…it is calm here, Phillipe can feel it, and even if he does not feel calm himself…

He crosses himself, head, breast, left shoulder right shoulder, head bowing as he does so- in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost- Phillipe kneels at the alter and brings his hands together, wrists resting on the alter rail, and finds his mind completely blank. It is not his habit to turn to prayer for help, but he had felt the chapel was the only place he might find some quiet and besides, the last time Louis had been so dangerously ill Phillipe had spent the time praying fervently for his recovery and it had worked, it had worked- he can still remember the relief he felt when the doctors had told mama that the King would make a full recovery, how he longs to hear those words again…the last time Louis had been this sick, Phillipe had been terrified- terrified at the thought of losing his brother, his closest companion despite how annoying he could be at times, his friend. Terror at the attention suddenly being payed to him- though he had craved to be out of his brother’s shadow he had never wanted everyone to replace Louis with him, to turn their flattery and their courtships on him…Phillipe remembers Armand kissing him, hand tangling in his hair and Phillipe remembers the cold shock and horror that had flooded through him as he realised that the kiss had nothing to do with Phillipe and everything to do with the possibility that the crown of France might very well be placed on the very hair the comte had in his grip at that very moment. The same terror hangs over him now, not as strongly, perhaps- he still loves his brother and there is no part of him that wants Louis to succumb to this illness, not least because that will force him to decide between bowing to the Regency of Marie-Terese or…

_“I side with you. Just as the army sides with you. Would you side with me?”_

Phillipe finds himself wishing he had committed, one way or the other- that the decision had already been made, that the Chevalier had taken him in his arms and stroked his hair and told him everything was going to be all right…had not gone to Paris without telling Phillipe exactly what he intended to do, who he intended to see, what he was planning to say….or had not gone to Paris at all…just as before, Phillipe can feel everything spinning out of his control and rising high above his head, threatening to drown him and he needs…he needs…

He needs someone-or something- to reach out to, and to feel he is being reached out to in return. And he would not normally seek such a thing in prayer, but Louis is supposed to be God’s, isn’t he? And if Louis gets better everything will be all right, it has to be. There is still a small part of Phillipe that sees them both as children, sees Louis as the only solid and real and dependable person in the world who held him close and promised things everything would be alright as Phillipe clung to him in terror of the People outside the palace who mama said wanted to hurt them and Phillipe didn’t understand why, but as long as Louis was there…

As long as Louis is there, everything will be alright, Phillipe will be safe, Phillipe and the people he cares about- this is how it works, this is how being brother to the King works, and Phillipe wants with everything he has for Louis to be well, but since he is not, yet, Phillipe will turn to the brother claimed for him in the Church’s teachings that God is their Father-

“Christ Jesus….” He bites his lower lip, moving his thumbs over each other as he searches for the right words. “Life eternal…In the bosom of the father…Life of souls in the image of your own likeness.” If life at Court has taught him anything it is that flattery tends to get people places, and even if it doesn’t it never tends to hurt. “ Protect-“ he inhales, hesitating again. It is Louis he intends to pray for, but the Chevalier’s face he can see in his mind’s eye and he suddenly thinks that perhaps it is his lover who needs protection in whatever it is he is trying to do… Phillipe hesitates, then makes up his mind: it is Louis who is gravely ill, Louis who is in real danger, Louis who needs Phillipe’s prayers the most- “my brother.” he says out loud, “In his time of need-” and please, make sure my Chevalier doesn’t do anything foolish-

The solid thud of feet treading on wood breaks in to his thoughts, the jangling of metal that accompanies it…Phillipe stills, falling silent and he knows, he _knows_ , he will always _know_ when it is his brother and his King who walks in to a room, even if he cannot see, and sudden joy wells up in his chest, filling him like…like the sun’s rays suddenly landing on his face when he has been lying in the shade, and then expanding to warm the rest of his body. He hears the scuff of leather being dragged over the floor as Louis comes to a halt- posing, no doubt- Phillipe loves him for it- he turns, a smile quirking his lips, “My God!” he rises to his feet, still smiling, and Louis tilts his head; Phillipe feels like laughing his brother his fine, he is fine he is not going to die and Phillipe- he is fine to, he need not answer the Chevalier’s question! Louis is not dying, the King is well, and he! He starts towards his brother; he wishes to pull him in to a tight, tight embrace and make him stay there at least long enough to return the gesture; it feels like an age since they showed each other proper affection- “I was told that you were dying- “he begins, then stops suddenly as his mind catches up with his eyes and registers the presence of the two guards flanking his brother.

They are standing in front of him. Not behind him as was usual but in front, and their hands…their hands are on the hilts of their swords. As if they feel that their King is at a risk of attack…from him? He backs up a little, eyes going back to Louis- he has been ill, perhaps he is feeling fragile, that is understandable, Phillipe will wait then, for him to come forward or at least to gesture for the guards to back away-

“I was.” Louis’ voice is cold, his jaw tight. _What is wrong? What have I done?_ “But then I recovered,” Louis says, and his voice is cold and he…he has not just recovered. Phillipe looks, really looks at his brother, takes in the way he is standing, the way he looks. He is too composed for a man who has only just risen from his bed- he is far too dressed. In…black. Black, and nothing but black and shades of black except for the lace but Louis never wears black, Phillipe knows this because Louis’ dislike of looking as if he is mourning something means that Phillipe has to do it far too often- “I recovered”, Louis says, and he does not mean “just now”. He means “I have been well a long time, possibly I was well when I sent Bontemps out to you with that stupid dance, but I did not think you important enough to tell you.” “You did not think to tell me?” he asks, hurt spiking through him. Louis remains impervious, and coolly states “I told no one.”

Phillipe cannot understand. Surely Louis must know how worried they all were- he makes a point of being the centre of their world, after all. He glances to his right to catch the Chevalier’s expression, to see if he is hearing correctly or is he has somehow misunderstood. Only he is in the Chapel, the Chevalier is not with him because he is not permitted in the Chapel and even if he were he has gone…to Paris….

“Why would you do that?” Phillipe asks. Louis replies as if it were the most logical thing in the world, without an ounce of regret or concern for the worry and the fear he has put them all through- Phillipe, Henriette, Madame de Monstespan, probably, fearing that her Love was dying and not even able to learn how he was- “So I might see who it was upon whom I can truly depend.”

Phillipe processes the answer. In the few short seconds it has taken him to work through everything that statement means or suggests, the warmth he had felt at seeing his brother well, already dissipating, is stripped from him completely leaving him feeling shivery and hollow and sick himself, throat closing over.

“You do not include me.”

I do not.”

 “You do not trust your own brother then?” Phillipe wonders suddenly if this is not supposed to be news to him, if Louis has never trusted him and thought he knew. He wonders if his brother knows that he feels like a sword has been thrust through his stomach and pierced through his back- it has gone right through him and he is dying, slowly, in agony-

“I do not trust the company he keeps.”

Hope. For the briefest of moments, Phillipe actually feels hope: if Louis can only be made to see that he can trust Phillipe, that he can trust Phillipe’s Chevalier, because that is who Louis is referring to. He has never liked him, has never understood but if Phillipe can make him understand-the Chevalier is not a bad person.

Phillipe takes a deep breath, thinking through his words and how best to present the argument, which parts of the Chevalier’s character that Louis may not see, but would admire if he did- and how to keep himself from saying anything that would indicate the Chevalier had left Versailles. Phillipe doubted Louis would approve, he might push for details and…Phillipe sent up a quick, silent hope that the Chevalier was on his way back, that he would return home to Phillipe and find Louis recovered, and then no one would need know… “The Chevalier may seem blithe and glib,” Phillipe began, (He was blithe and glib, but blitheness wasn’t a bad quality and as for glib…well, it wasn’t the only side the Chevalier had.) “But he has a backbone. Truly, brother, I only wish you saw what I do” He  shrugs slightly, hands to the side, willing his brother’s face to relax in to a slight smile, for him to demand the evidence of what Phillipe says but in the same manner he always teased Phillipe when they were boys, when Phillipe found himself entranced by some young nobleman he was too shy to go and speak to and would instead bore Louis with details of their every movement- Louis raises his chin, and tilts his head, somehow managing to sneer without moving his lips and Phillipe feels a rush of desperation. “He’s a man of honour”, he insists, because he feels it to be true even if he can’t think of any specific examples right now and—

“You are blind to his failings and dumb to his faults.” Louis speaks sharply, and Phillipe feels the cut of each word.

“Do not say such things,” he says, a slight whine to his voice, but he cannot help it. He is well aware of the Chevalier’s failings and faults, he loves them as much as they exasperate him and his brother’s criticism hurts, it always does. And Louis is looking at him with disdain, as if he thinks Phillipe a fool as he says-

“A conspiracy in Paris was uncovered-

No. no no no no no, please, God….Phillipe doesn’t hear Louis, for a moment he can no longer even see him, everything is white noise and Phillipe’s mouth is dry and his heart starts to race…maybe the Chevalier never made it to Paris, maybe it was a different group of nobles and Chevalier being there is simply…it’s simply all a misunderstanding, they will sort it out, it isn’t as if the Chevalier wants Louis dead after all- the word Chevalier is spoken, Louis’ voice echoing his own thoughts, and his brother has Phillipe’s full attention again: “the Chevalier is a ring leader. All of them will be arrested.”

Arrested.

The Chevalier will be arrested. Phillipe does not know how to respond. He must respond, and he can feel his heart beating as he is gripped by a dread that the guards flanking his brother are there to see how he responds, if he makes a mistake, if he…if he what? What would constitute a mistake? Arrested. The Chevalier will be arrested- that means the Bastille that means Fabien Marchel and his questioning…no. No, no, no Marchel can’t have him, he can have the lowlifes who try and sneak in to the palace with knives for the King’s back, he cannot have Phillipe’s lover, he cannot have the Chevalier’s fine hands and handsome face and soft skin and the body which fits so perfectly with Phillipe’s own to break, he cannot- Phillipe wants to throw himself at his brother’s feet, to touch the King’s shoe with his lips and then clasp his arms around his legs, to look up at his brother and beg for him to show mercy to the Chevalier, to them _both_ , but that…he feels that may constitute a mistake. To beg for the Chevalier? It would suggest he needs begging for, and for Phillipe to lower himself so very quickly would surely raise suspicion his brother’s mind that there is something to know and that Phillipe knows it, that the conspiracy is about more than complaint and is, in fact, actually about damaging Louis’ position which it is not, it was just about helping, supporting that position- surely that doesn’t count- “Impossible,” he says softly. “He’s no conspirator.”

He wets his lips and waits for Louis’ reply, his nod of acquiescence, his-

“Very true. He is a traitor, and will be treated as such.” Louis’ tone leave no room for movement, and he leaves no time for Phillipe to reply before he turns and strides away, his guards following, The white crosses embroidered on the backs of their blue cloaks seem oddly blurred as Phillipe watches them leave, as he thinks about the Chevalier dying a traitor’s death- beheaded, perhaps, or worse, torn by horses-his lips move but Phillipe does not know which word he means to form- no or help or please- his chest begins to rise and fall more quickly, his breaths becoming louder, becoming gasps as his eyes begin to prickle and burn and the gasps give ways to sobs-

His knees hit the chapel floor, the impact shaking his already trembling body as he rocks slightly, back and forth, hands scrabbling at each other in his lap, tears streaming down his face as he cries- for the Chevalier, for himself for all of them for the whole sorry world, for the Chevalier, the Chevalier his Chevalier…

Phillipe sobs.

He pushes himself backwards, reaching his hands back and then pulling the rest of himself towards them without really being sure why he is doing it except that it is more comfortable to cry like this, one leg tucked beneath him, hands in his lap, his sobs and ragged gasps for breath ugly and loud in the confined space of the chapel…he cries for hours, for years, even- his skull feels as if it might crack at the temples, the throbbing in his head matched by the pounding of his heart as he fights to bring his sobs under control. Phlegm and bile mix in his throat and his stomach twists and clenches; he thinks he will be sick if he cannot stop crying soon and the thought of vomiting here, over the floor of the chapel, of having to find a servant to ask them to clear it up, makes him cry even harder. His sobs echo around the room, the ache in his head grows louder and faster and his chest feels more constricted than it had the first time the Chevalier had helped him put on a corset and pulled the laces far too tight-and Phillipe hadn’t liked to say- he had fainted during their walk, Chevalier had carried him home- Phillipe had forgotten, but now a hundred little buried moments are rising to the front of his mind, proof that the Chevalier isn’t a bad person, isn’t a traitor he cannot be- he cannot suffer that fate he can’t. The Chevalier  is supposed to stay with Phillipe for ever, he promised he would and he has never, never once broken a promise he made to Phillipe…he screams, then, a thin, anguished scream that tailed off in to a moan, and then in to a whimper as Phillipe slid sideways and curled himself up on the floor, body shaking as tears spilt over the edges of his eyes, soaking his cheeks and his hair and running in to the seam of his mouth…his lips taste of salt-water.

The next Phillipe is aware, his body feels as if it has been scraped hollow and he aches all over- his muscles, his head…he listens to the blood pulsing through his body, the thud of his heart. His stomach gurgles and he realises it is empty- he should feel hungry, but he doesn’t. He feels like sawdust or sand, or fragments of shattered glass.

His nose is blocked. There’s snot trailing from beneath it, clinging, slimy, wet, annoying, he wipes it away with his hand and shivers, eyelids fluttering open briefly before he squeezes the tightly shut again.

He thinks he might have been asleep. How could he have slept? He feels hollowed out and crumpled up, like a marionette that had been held at some great height then had its delicate strings all severed, and he had fallen, far, far, and far, below and then…slept. Just slept.

He wants to go back to sleep.

He wants to be in bed, the mattress soft and the sheets silk, body aching in a good way, the Chevalier still on top of him or very nearly, his weight and warmth a comforting presence, and things smell right, they smell of the Chevalier and if Phillipe moves even slightly then the Chevalier will roll off him, they will take each other in their arms and snuggle close and hold each other…

They will never hold each other again.

Phillipe sniffs and exhales, once, shuddering.

He keeps his eyes shut and tries to count the seconds passing.

When his eyes open again, he vaguely remembers getting to eight, though he thinks he may have moved past it at some point. Or started at one again, it hardly matters. He aches even more. The Chapel is darker, and cold; night has truly fallen. The Chevalier will have been arrested by now. Maybe Phillipe should have gone to warn him-taken his brother’s horse, the fastest in the stables and raced…

 

 

…he needs to go to bed.

He doesn’t want to move.

He wants the Chevalier to pick him up and carry him to bed, the way he did when Phillipe sprained his ankle at a ball once, too badly to continue to stand, not so badly Louis showed any hint of concern and allowed him to retire- “Your own fault for wearing those heels,” had been his snapped response to Phillipe’s pleas, “go and sit down if you really can’t bear it…”

Phillipe can’t.

He can remember the way the Chevalier had come to sit with him and didn’t move from his side. He can remember the way he had held him up when Phillipe had tried to stand at the end of the evening only for the pain to flare back up, buckling his knees, the Chevalier’s voice soothing, in his ear… _“Easy now, mignonette. How about I carry you up to bed? I’m more than happy to help you undress as well…”_

The realisation that he will never hear that voice again comes crashing over him like a wave, and Phillipe panics- he has to, he has to hear the Chevalier speak again so that he can memorise everything: the exact pitch, the intonation- Phillipe needs to make sure he has the Chevalier’s voice right in his head for after-The Chevalier is the only person who has ever told Phillipe “I love you,” and Phillipe needs to remember how it sounds…. will Louis let him hear it one last time, he wonders, if he begs hard enough? If he begs…Phillipe should have begged the moment Louis told him and damn the implications-

Damn the implications.

Phillipe launches himself to his feet and tears out of the chapel, almost sprinting down the corridor. He needs to get to his brother, needs to sort this _now_ and have the Chevalier safe in his arms again as soon as possible. Whatever Louis wants in exchange; Phillipe will give it to him-

“Brother- “he begins, as he bursts through the door- at the same time as Bontemps barks “How dare you!” and Louis whirls upwards from his chair to face Phillipe, holds up a hand to Bontemps and commands: “Leave us, Bontemps.” Silence descends on the room as Louis lowers his hand, Bontemps smooths down his jacket and bows his head in brief acknowledgment before striding for the door, glaring at Phillipe for his lack of propriety as he does so, though Phillipe is too concerned with staring at Louis to really register the valet’s scowl. His fatigued mind, already preoccupied with thoughts of the Chevalier, cannot think of any possible reason for his brother to have curled his hair so tightly to put on a nightshirt, nor for his face to have a faint, golden sheen to it as if his brother had been putting on make-up…

Louis stalks towards him, jaw tight and eyes blazing. Phillipe bows his head. “Brother. My King- “

“Am I your King?” Louis asks, and Phillipe looks up at him, eyes wide.  Before he can formulate a response, Louis speaks again, circling around Phillipe like a shark, inches from him. “If I were your king, you would attend to my orders, would you not? The dance tonight,” he continues, stepping back from Phillipe. “Your absence was noted. And so my nobles think you did not care for the prospect of my recovery.”

The dance? Oh, the _dance._ The one being held in anticipation of the King’s recovery. Louis is angry about Phillipe missing the _dance?_ After telling him- Phillip exhales shakily.

“Then let them know that I was in the chapel, praying for your recovery,” he says softly. “It is close enough to the truth- “

“It is not enough,” Louis says sharply. “You were expected at the dance; you were not there. No excuse for your absence can be enough when the _king has demanded your presence!”_

“My king had my dancing partner arrested, I hope he can understand why I might have forgotten I had a dance to go to.” Phillipe retorts, and Louis lets out a short, humourless laugh. “I hope my King will forgive me,” Phillipe adds, more quietly. “I truly had no intention of disobeying you; the dance slipped from my mind; the Chevalier’s arrest- “

“If you a hear to plead for him you are wasting your time, I will not hear my brother plead for a traitor.”

“I love him.”

“If you love a traitor you do not love your king.” Louis declares, snatching Phillipe’s chin with one hand and digging his nails in to Phillipe’s jaw. Phillipe squirms against the pain. “I’ve told you, I will _not_ hear you plead for him- “

“Then let me plead for myself, brother; let me see him. Let me go and see him, we did not-oh god I did not even say good bye before he left- “he realises, “I did not kiss him good bye- “Louis shoves him away and he stumbles backwards, hand going to his jaw as Louis turns away from him and walks deliberately to the mirror. Phillipe stares at his back, the brilliant white of his nightshirt, and waits for him to speak.

The King does not speak.

The seconds seem to stretch for eternity. “Brother- “

“Fetch me my dressing gown will you, it’s on the back of the door.”

Phillipe swallows the refusal that springs automatically to his tongue and darts across to the door to unhook his brother’s dressing gown. He is careful with it; careful with the expensive fabric as he takes it to his brother and holds it out to him. Louis turns his head, looks Phillipe up and down. Then he snatches the robe from him and shrugs it on. “Look at yourself,” he says, stepping slightly to the side. Phillipe glances at his reflection in the mirror then looks to his brother, wondering what game the King is playing. “Look at yourself,” Louis insists. Phillipe looks. His reflection looks back with eyes framed by red rims and eyelashes clumped together by salt water; his skin blotchy where it has been stained by tears, though pale. As pale as the marble statues that line his brother’s garden walks. Pale like the corpses Phillipe sat amongst on the battlefield after his horse had been shot from beneath him.

Guise had been a parting gift from the Chevalier.

Phillipe’s nostrils are red, too, just like his eyes, unlike his lips, which are cracking. Phillipe lightly runs his index finger along his lower lip; it has dried out-

He digs a nail in to one of the cracks, pinches the flaking skin and rips. Pain shoots a couple of millimetres along his lips and it’s good, it feels good, and the red bead of blood welling up on his lip tastes good.

Phillipe’s head is pounding.

He wants a drink, something strong. Something that will sting when it goes past his lips.

(He can smell smoke and gunpowder and he can hear the sound of cannon fire and pistol shot in his ears-) “We can go back to Saint-Cloud,” he says quickly, spinning round to his brother, falling to his knees, grasping at the King’s.  “Give him back to me,  _please,_ brother,” he begs, “If you ever loved me, If I have ever done anything to be worthy of your affections-release him for my sake, please, brother, he’s all I have-“

“All you have?” Louis interrupts, sounding incredulous. “ _All you have?_ You have fifty thousand livres worth of shoes, brother. You have a house, in which reside your two children; you have a wife, who is expecting your third child-“

“Minette’s child is not mine, we both know that to be so-“

“Perhaps if you spent more time fucking _her_ and less time _being_ fucked by your precious Chevalier de Lorraine that might not be the case!” Louis yells; Phillipe flinches, finds himself blinking fresh tears down his face and Louis laughs derisively. “Tears, always tears with you, brother, and tantrums- whenever you do not get your own way. You are blind to everything except your own desires, you care nothing for the good of France-“

“I fought a _war_ for the good of France-“

“You fought a war for your own personal glory-“

“I fought a war for _your_ glory, brother!” Phillipe shouts. He grips on to Louis’ legs more tightly, shakes them slightly: “I wanted to make you proud,” he whispers. “All I have ever wanted was to make you proud of me, to have your approval, ever since we were children, that is all…I have never…” he breaks off swallowing. “I thought you were going to die,” he sobs, bowing his head and pressing it against Louis’ knees, wrapping his arms around his brother’s calves. “I thought you were going to die and I could not bear it. I _prayed_ for you, I prayed for you to get better and when I saw you in the chapel earlier I was so happy. Believe me when I tell you this; then believe me when I tell you that if the Chevalier de Lorraine desired to kill you I would end him myself, but he does not and I will not and I _cannot lose him…_ and so I beg my King to be merciful, please _, …. please…..”_ He lowers his arms, palms flattening against the floor. The wood is smooth but unyielding against his fingers: firm, immovable. Phillipe pushes himself backwards a little, breeches scuffing that wooden floor as he drops his head to his brother’s feet and closes his eyes. “Brother,” he whispers, the word more sacred than any prayer. Something cracks, something breaks inside him. He is done, he is finished- he has prostrated himself at his brother’s feet and awaits his judgement without even the _illusion_ that he is giving himself over entirely to anything other than his brother’s whim. He has reduced himself entirely and his brother will never forget it, never allow _him_ to forget it.

He is not entirely certain that the Chevalier is even worth it.

_I love him. He is a half of me._

The Chevalier is the only person who tells Phillipe that he loves him. Is that worth this?

_Yes._

_Yes, the Chevalier is worth this._

Phillipe takes a deep breath, steadies himself, feels suddenly more in love with the Chevalier than he has ever been.

Louis steps back suddenly, toes scuffing wood. “Get up,” he snaps, words coming quickly, furiously. “Get to your feet, for God’s….” he sighs as Phillipe rises, looks away from his brother’s wide, hopeful eyes. “I take no pleasure in this,” he insists. “I take no pleasure in paining you, but the security of the state _must come first”_

“The Chevalier is no threat, brother-“

“No the Chevalier has convinced you he is no threat, there is a difference! You are-“

“I am blind to his failings and dumb to his faults, yes you told me!” Phillipe’s nails bite in to the palms of his hand, he can feel heat crackling inside him- anger, expectation, hope- he is not sure what to name it. “But have you ever considered that you are the one who is blind? Blind to the possibility that just because someone is critical of you it does not mean they are against you. The Chevalier dislikes some of what you are doing. So do others, and they always will. Whatever you do, whatever it is you are trying to build, someone will have objections to it. Deal with that.”

It feels as though he has been waiting years to say that.

Louis smiles, and Phillipe finds himself smiling back: “People had objections to our mother,” says Louis, and Phillipe’s smile is wiped away. “People _had objections_ to Cardinal Mazarin- have you forgotten where that led, brother?  Our entire childhoods were spent in fear because people had _objections_ , and those _objections_ manifested themselves as the Frondes, during which time I had _strangers_ traipsing through my bedroom every night to ensure that I remained in my bed and to guarantee that mama could not take me away and flee to somewhere she felt more safe because she worried that the _people with their objection were going to butcher us all!”_ Louis takes a deep breath. His hands are trembling, and so is Phillipe; his brother has a wild look in his eyes which Phillipe knows well- someone is about to get hurt. “There will be no objections, brother.” Louis declares. He shudders, then reaches out a hand, cupping Phillipe’s cheek. “ _I am_ the State, I act for France, _because I am_ France. Those who plot against me plot against her and it cannot go unchallenged.” He drops his hand and looks Phillipe directly in the eye. “The warrant for your Chevalier’s execution has already been signed.”

Phillipe’s world spins. The warrant signed- it has been decided- his brother had decided- the Chevalier is to be executed, he will suffer the fate due to a traitor; that body that Phillipe loves so well, that he knows as well as he knows his own will be torn and broken-

“No!” he whispers “No-nnaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”- raw agony tears itself free from Phillipe in a piercing scream as his vision tunnels black and the ground rushes up to meet him. “nnaaaaaaaaagh! _Naaaaaaaaaagh!”_ He is only distantly aware of Louis’ arms catching him, preventing him from hitting the floor; Louis’ hands in his hair, stroking, soothing- as Phillipe shatters “No!” he moans, “No-“

 _“_ The warrant will not be acted upon until there is proof he intended to move against my life,” he says. “Perhaps not even then, but Monsieur Marchel assures me it is easier to get the information he needs if those he must question believe that they cannot lie to save their skin and must therefore try the truth instead.”

“He will still be in prison.”

“He will still be in prison” Louis agrees, stroking Phillipe’s hair.

“Will you free him?”

Louis’ silence is all the reply that Phillipe needs. His brother has no intention to free the Chevalier, and why should he? Even if he did not plot against the King’s life, he dared to raise a voice in criticism. And that makes him a traitor. Traitors must pay for their actions, that is the only way to discourage more people from taking the same actions.

Phillipe is tired. So tired.

He picks himself up from the floor.

“Keep me informed of what Monsieur Marchel learns,” he says. “And-any comfort that can be provided for him, take the money from my purse.”

Louis nods.

“I will return to my chambers,” Phillipe continues. “I’ve wasted enough of your time.  I apologise for missing the dance; I am truly glad you are well.”

He doesn’t wait for the King to grant him permission to leave; he slips past Bontemps and walks back to his room without taking in any of his surroundings. He strips without thinking of it, allowing his clothes to drop to the floor in a pool of expensive brocades and silks and lace.

He can’t be bothered to find a nightshirt.

Phillipe climbs in to bed- there is too much space next to him.

Moves to the middle of the bed, doesn’t help.

Moves to the Chevalier’s side of the bed.

Doesn’t help

The pillows ought to smell of him, but they don’t- the bed clothes have been changed since this morning, they smell fresh-clean-

Phillipe rolls back to his side of the bed, pulls one of the Chevalier’s pillows with him.

Holds it.

Thinks about the Chevalier- what he must be feeling, the filth he is surely lying in.

Worries for him. _Aches_ for him.

The ache and the worry stop him from falling asleep; he turns over and tosses about. It is too warm with the covers and too cold without them; he hurls the pillow from the bed and buries himself beneath the covers. He wakes without recalling ever having slept and there is a hollowness in the pit of his stomach which makes him feel sick. The sun is streaming in through the window; Phillipe knows he ought to get out of bed, to wash and dress himself, to break his fast. But then, he has never liked mornings, and normally it takes the promise of a day spent in the Chevalier's company to lure him out of bed.

Phillipe turns his back on the window, and stares blankly at the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me 48 hours to write this. Across those 48 hours, I've slept for six.  
> I'm that desperate to make Phillipe's life a misery :)  
> I hope it was worth it. /I/ had fun writing it, but please, let me know what you thought, your comments really mean a lot. Seriously, they do- they keep me writing. And when the story's done, like now, they encourage me to go write new fics . (Look, I'm not /promising/ a whole spin off from chapter five about Rohan trying to seduce Phillipe to the dark side [and possibly getting punched in the process]...but watch this space, it's a cool idea and deductress? I promise I'll credit you with it if it does happen.)
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, shameless comment-fishing to the side for the moment, I just wanna say thanks. Thanks for reading, thanks for sticking with me so far, thanks for enjoying Versailles as much as I do. 
> 
> And If you need something to recover from the angst, I suggest you try frustratedlennon's monchevy crack fics, they're funny as Phillipe in full sass mode. Read 'em, laugh the heartbreak off, leave a nice comment on /them/ as well as on this....
> 
> Thanks, once again. I mean it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the reviews, or come and find me on tumblr @ themalhambird.tumblr.com :-)


End file.
